Into the Void
by Alexandri
Summary: Mrs. Granger has a hard time letting Hermione go to the Burrow for the summer. Written in 2005.


**Title:** Into the Void  
**Author:** Alexandri  
**Characters:** Hermione, Mr. and Mrs. Granger  
**Summary:** Mrs. Granger isn't having an easy time seeing her daughter go away for the summer.

The first week is strained but nice. Hermione looks a bit frayed as if she's been through a painful ordeal but, when asked, she always says nothing is wrong. She's just tired. Sitting her O.W.L.s—Ordinary Wizarding Levels similar to the GCSEs; you made a point of remembering—has been particularly stressful, she says. It surprises you when you realize you don't believe her. You wonder when that happened. It saddens you that distrust has entered your parent-child lexicon.

She begins to perk up her second week. Of course, she's also begun to pack. No, that's not true. She barely unpacked in the first place. During dinner on her ninth day—you've been subconsciously counting the days since her arrival as well as noting the changes in her—she announces her intention of spending the summer with the Weasleys. A sharp silence settles over the table. If Hermione notices the shift in atmosphere, she doesn't show it. You glance at your husband; he glances back at you.

"When did you decide this?" he asks. He knows that you're too hurt, too angry, too _confused_by the knowledge that your only child apparently can't bear to be in your presence. You haven't, after all, had the opportunity to earn such disdain.

"Oh, I received an owl from Mrs. Weasley inviting me to spend the summer at the Burrow," Hermione answers with a shrug, tucking appreciatively into her potatoes.

"When?" you ask.

She glances up, confusion clear in her eyes. "Pardon?"

"When did you get the invitation?"

"Oh. Last night after dinner." She quirks her head to the side. "Is it a problem?"

She sounds as if it has just occurred to her that you may have an issue with this, that you actually do have a say in the matter. You manage to contain your glower. You remember that she's still quite young despite her usual precociousness.

"We hadn't anticipated you leaving so soon, sweetheart," Edward says gently. He's always been the more diplomatic of you two.

Hermione nods with all the wisdom of her sixteen, soon to be seventeen years. "I suppose not. But I should go. Two months is a long time to be away from magic. I wouldn't want to fall behind."

Neither of you respond. You know Edward can feel the turmoil you're in: the tumble of anger, confusion, worry, doubt. After all, Hermione's explanation doesn't make sense. She's told you that underage wizards and witches aren't allowed to perform magic outside of school. Though she may be older than many in her year, she's still not of age. If she can't even do magic all summer, why does she need to be around it for almost two extra months? Surely other children born to normal people—muggles, she told you that you're muggles—don't suffer from lack of magical exposure when they go home. You begin to wonder if Hermione's taken this magic thing too far. You wonder how much longer it'll be before you don't know her at all.

Still, you're reluctant to stand in her way. She wants to go. That much is clear from the way she brightens up the next day at breakfast when you ask when she'll be leaving for the Weasleys. (You don't mention the small surge of hatred spiking through your breast at the sound of that name. They've stolen your little girl, usurped your place. You should be watching her grow up, not them. But telling her "no" would lead to an awful summer anyway. Best to let her go and remember the days when she wanted to share her world with you. It's better than knowing that you scarcely have a place in her world anymore.)

"Tomorrow," she chirps. She hugs you before dashing off to send a letter to Mrs. Weasley (_her magical mummy_, you think bitterly before you catch yourself). The three of you manage to spend an amiable day together despite Hermione's eagerness to be with her friends and your sad realization that you've lost your child long before you ever expected to (only your husband's quiet reassurances that you're overreacting keep you from succumbing to complete melancholia).

Despite your preferences, your wants, your need, the day ends and all too soon the time for Hermione to go back to "her" world comes. She gives you both tight hugs as Mr. Weasley excitedly examines various furnishings in your living room. (He has an unholy fascination with your table lamp and if he mutters, "Oh, the things muggles come up with" one more time, you may be forced to hurt him.)

"I'll see you at Christmas," Hermione promises.

You nod and smile as if you believe her, even though you're sure it will only be a day before she decides to go back to her friends, her life that you don't understand. You kiss her and tell her to be good and to be safe and to have a good year at school. She assures you that she will and then she's gone, following Mr. Weasley through the fireplace in a flash of bright green flame and smoke. That night you sit with your husband, both of you resigning yourselves to the silence of the house, to its emptiness. You mentally catalogue all of the things you'd intended to do with her: tour the Tower of London, take her to high tea at the Ritz (you'd once promised to take her when she was old enough; now that is she, you wonder if she'd even want to go), maybe take her to see a play in the West End. You'd planned to make long, lazy breakfasts, maybe attempt to coax out more about her education. After all, the vague descriptions she gives mean nothing to you and what sort of parent would you be if you didn't try to be involved in your child's education and development.

Night winds down and you sink into your husband's embrace. He brushes away your silent tears, the ones you've held in since you learned she was leaving again, and kisses your brow. You both settle down to sleep and, somehow, you know he's thinking of ways to fill in the void just like you are.


End file.
